


A Taste of Honey

by Lost_in_Paradise



Category: Amazingphil - Fandom, Danisnotonfire - Fandom, Phandom, Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF), RPF - Fandom, Youtubers
Genre: Angst, Dysfunctional Relationships, Everyone is miserable, M/M, Phanfiction, Sad Dan Howell, Sad Phil Lester, Self-Harm, Vent Writing, angst everywhere, slight smut if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-10-23 20:57:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 16,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10727094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lost_in_Paradise/pseuds/Lost_in_Paradise
Summary: Dan self harms. Phil pretends not to see. They fall into each other at night in a desperate attempt to fill the void. Nothing sweet happens here and everyone ignores their glaring issues and insecurities.The main story will belong to Phil, but Dan will have interludes. The interludes are in somewhat chronological order, but aren't typically exact.





	1. Tasting Much Sweeter than Wine

**Author's Note:**

> This work contains descriptions of self harm and dysfunctional relationships. If this is going to upset you in any way, shape, or form I highly recommend not reading it.

I hear the creak of a cupboard and ignore it. I hear the sound of a wrapper being removed and turn up my headphones. I see fresh bandaids on skin and turn my head away. 

Do I love him because I don’t force him to quit?

Or do I hate him because I let him slice himself to ribbons?

These questions run through my mind every single time. I have no respite from them. No cessation. I eat, sleep, and even breath them. That’s why I find myself standing in front of the bathroom, straining my ears to hear. 

I wander away from the door and sit on our sofa. The time on the clock reads 8:30. The sky is dark and the city is bright outside the window. I watch his reflection on the glass as he walks in, seemingly normal.

“I’m going to bed.” He announces. 

“Bit early.” I reply offhandedly.

“Tired.” He moves lethargically toward his bedroom. 

I turn on the TV. I watch it halfheartedly until a ping sounds from my mobile. I don’t even have to look at it. I turn off the TV and walk into the hall, passing by my room and entering his. It’s dark. So dark I can’t see my hand in front of my face. I don’t need to see anything. I’ve memorized how to get to him. I lift the covers and pull the warm body to mine. 

When I wake up he is no longer there. Out for a run, says the note on the counter. I make myself a bowl of cereal and lose myself on the computer until he walks though the door. 

Neither of us mention what happened last night. We never do and likely never will. 

Roaming hands weren’t an issue for the first few months of our arrangement. Then he begged me for it. Begged me for a distraction, for something, anything to fill up the hole that consumes him when he lies awake at night. 

I give him soft kisses and feather light touches in the darkness. He tastes like honey and warmth. 

In in light, I give him playful banter and friendly needling. Like we’re normal best friends, like we don’t exist in the dark. 

I live for the moments in the dark. He does too.

It is during one of those moments, weeks later, when my fingers stroke down his side that I find a bandage. He makes no excuses for it, I make no mention of it. I run my fingertips over the area, feeling the thin plastic and kiss them. 

I don’t know what I was expecting. Did I think he would suddenly swear not to return to the cupboard? Did I expect him to say he was miraculously feeling better? That he’d never ever hurt himself because I saved him with a single kiss, like prince charming? Did I expect for him to suddenly allow us to toss back the curtains and allow this thing into the light? I lean over the sink the next morning, clenching my teeth and choking back tears. Eyes squeezed shut and knuckles white where they grip the tile. 

Maybe I wished for all. Maybe I wished for none. I don’t know anymore. I don’t know anything. I don’t understand why I can’t just be normal. Why I have to be different. I have what I thought I wanted! But I have nothing. I am nothing without him. 

Dan walks in, but I have pulled myself together. He is wearing boxers and a t-shirt, hair in flattened curls and eyes blurred with sleep.

“Want me to dry those off?” He asks, nodding towards the sink.

I hand him the towel, feeling the warmth radiate from him. He’s so hot all the time, like he has fire in his belly, consuming him. 

The smudges on my glasses annoy me. The buzz of traffic annoys me. Everything annoys me right now but I don’t get any relief. I have to be happy, I have to be sweet. I have to be sunshine for everyone because that’s my branding. Its hard to shake off our personas at times, just as it gets harder and harder to keep them as we get older. Its a cruel paradox that we treat as a joke.

We can be ourselves in the darkness. 

He sits across from me at the table and pushes a cup of coffee towards me.

“Thanks.” I say and he gives me a crooked smile. I sip and catch sight of a bandaid half concealed by his sleeve. I close my eyes. 

The next afternoon there is a bandage on his shin. I browse Netflix more rapidly. The next day, I catch sight of a bandaid on his hand and glance down at my phone. Wrists, arms, ankles, knees, etc. Each day, becoming more noticeable as he tests me. I don’t acknowledge it.

Then as suddenly as they appeared, they’re gone. No open wounds can be seen when he is dressed. 

Two nights later he cracks. I walk into his room and he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, looking me dead in the eye. 

Feather light touches turn to gripping. The war in the darkness begins. He claws down my chest and I shove him off of me. He falls to the bed and pops right back up, teeth latching into my neck. I force him back down and pin his wrists. 

“Is this what you want?” I snarl. He growls back at me, eyes dark with hate and lust. We grapple with each other, trying to make the other bruise and bleed. The winner gets control. Both of us so desperately want control. 

He claws, bites, flails, snarls, does anything to throw me. I bite his collarbone hard and he screams and surrenders. He still tastes just as honey-sweet as he used to. I want to devour him, to keep some of that sweetness in my cold and bitter soul. 

This isn’t normal or right, I think to myself afterwards. The moon shines through and illuminates the red marks on my biceps from where he scratched me hard enough to pull blood. I gave as good as I got; his neck and chest bloom with hickeys.

We still mention nothing. He holds me at arms length during the day. We joke and shove each other around gently, like brothers would. 

“We haven’t made a video together in a while.” He mentions while I flip through a book of recipes. 

“D’you want to?” I ask distractedly. 

“I guess.” So we do. Its meant to be playful and short, but will still require hours of editing. He offers to edit it before we even start, so I let him. I smile when expected of me and act naive and silly. He acts cynical and makes jokes about impending doom. It feels good in a way, to put on a mask and lose myself in it. I don’t think, I just do. For a moment I am happy. I am AmazingPhil, not Phil. Then the camera clicks off and I lose it.

The studio light blinds me when I turn to look at him. His shirt doesn’t fully hide the bruise on his collarbone. I stare at it and he frowns slightly. He inhales too deeply and it shudders in his trachea for a moment. 

“Was there anything we need to do over?” He asks as I watch his mouth move.

“No.” I shake my head. “There’s nothing.” 

He turns the light off and leaves the room. I stand, slightly blinded by the loss of light and feel a ghost of sweetness on my lips.


	2. Interlude at Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for self harm mentions.

_“You still want to live with me right? You still like me?” I close my eyes and shove down a scream._

_“Yeah, of course Phil. I like you a lot.” I reply. How do I tell him I’m afraid. I’m in limbo, stuck between a rock and a hard place. If I stay then I’m stuck with the constant stream of ‘lol omfg r u guys together???’ ‘phan iz real!! look at his hickey!!’ ‘IF U BREAK INNOCENT PHILS HART I’LL KILL U’ day in and day out. If I leave then I’m dead. They’ll kill me outright or start a war or kill me slowly by making me lose my livelihood._

_Plus I don’t want to hurt him. He always seems slightly more fragile than I am, even though I feel like I’m falling apart. There’s a fire and fury in me that will sustain me, that others can sense and call strength._

_Why does he have to push me, and then apologize after without even knowing what he’s apologizing for? Its so fucking annoying. In his defense, he has no idea how raw of a wound it is. I bite the back my hand, but quickly let go, realizing that the bruise will be hard to hide._

_I sigh angrily, feeling that fire bubbling in my stomach. The O my teeth have left is already turning red. I just want to be alone. That's all I want._

_I was alone once. I thought I wanted fame and Phil. It was great at first, but then it fell apart and I was left to pick up the pieces and force them together, smiling for the camera. Literally at times._

I threw my phone across the room, I remember. It dented a little and the burst of concern for the object chased out the fire.

I still feel trapped. How could I not? Plus, I handled that entire situation in a not-so-great way. Speaking only when spoken to, ignoring him nearly outright for a year. That too is a raw wound, he’s perpetually afraid I’ll pull away again and I’ve got to reassure him every time. 

I’m sorry, but not sorry enough. I’ve got walls and alarms up for a reason and he crosses all of them. 

I’m tired but I don’t want to sleep. He just went to bed and I’m savoring it. Whenever I kiss him, my throat hurts afterwards so a moment’s respite is welcome, even though I am the one who initiated it. I am the one who continues to initiate it. I regret it sometimes but what can you do. I can’t push him away again, he won’t be able to stand it. I inadvertently pulled the prison around me tighter while trying to get it to expand. What a joke, but it’s my cross to bear.

Trust is a lie, security is an illusion. Nobody pays attention to you when you’ve gotten older and thats exactly what you wanted. Congratulations you’ve won the lottery. I curl on my side, but remember the cuts and flip over. I’ve gotten blood on too many things to take chances.

Its late, the moon is glowing in my eyes but I don’t want to get up and close the window. The air is cold but I can’t turn up the thermostat because Phil’s room will get too hot. 

I hate him so much sometimes. A lot of times. Most times, in fact. But other times he will do things that melt my stone cold heart, that wash the bitterness from me. Those situations are rare in comparison to the times where he is merely a companion. I swing like a pendulum, and not a balanced one at that. 

The music is grating on my ears, but I don’t want to turn it off. An old Beatles song comes on and I feel like a child again. I used to love it, it reminds me of a story from the book, Arabian Nights. I used to pretend I was in a romance, waiting for my champion to return when I heard it. Now that I’m with Phil, I have become the champion. I’ve always had to be the champion, I’m not quiet or vulnerable enough to be the fair lady. I’m not vulnerable period. No amount of being fair and fey is worth the inevitable hurt. 

I close my laptop once “Hurt” comes on. I don’t really want to hear it right now. It comes closer to making my cry than anything else. The feelings lodge in my chest and gently touch my throat but the tears never come. Everything else remains safely in my stomach. 

I push my chair away from my desk and sleep alone for the first time in a while.


	3. So Darkness I Became

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Typical mention of self harm, plus some weird relationship dynamics.

I’m toweling myself off after a shower when I catch sight of my body. I don’t usually pay much attention to it when I’m not attending an event or making a video. I should have been able to chuck on a pair of sweats and a sweatshirt and watch Great British Bakeoff until my brain fell out my ears, but I caught sight of myself in the mirror.

I look like someone tried to beat me to death. Huge bruises are scattered around my torso. I have scratches, in various stages of healing, absolutely everywhere. I’ve even got a slight shadow of a bruise on my cheekbone, either a nibble or from a gangly, flailing hand.

“Holy shit.” I swear under my breath. What the actual hell?

How could I let him to this to me?! Does he look like this too?! Where did my self respect go? Or my respect for him? 

My neck is bruised, there’s marks on my hips from his hands. This is so very wrong. This is twisted. There is nothing normal or healthy about this but it doesn’t matter. The thought occurs to me and the tension leaves my body.

It doesn’t matter that the noonday sun screams out the dysfunction of our relationship. It doesn’t matter because these marks belong to the darkness. They are invisible in the darkness, they don’t exist there. Neither do we.

I continue getting dressed, calmer than I was. I wonder if these battles have helped him work off some of that frustration or just made him even more desperate. 

I leave the humid bathroom, and the cold hits me. I wish Dan were here, he’s always radiating heat. He’s gone somewhere, I don’t know if he’s in the apartment or out wandering the streets of London. 

A soft ping catches my attention and I reach for my phone. My lips briefly curve into a slightly feral smile as I read what it says. I glance at the sky, night feels very far away. 

Dan comes back a few hours later, loaded with groceries. He pulls a package out of the grocery bags and chucks them on the couch.

Burt’s Bees chapstick in honey flavor. That explains the sweetness. I go back to my book as he puts everything away. I want to hold him, but I know he’ll refuse right now. 

He finishes and settles himself into the couch with his laptop. Our new video is open and I watch him scroll to the comments. There’s the standard spew of words by angsty teens, but hidden within the asinine comments is the occasional: “Is that a hickey??!!1!”

He cringes a little and the light goes out of his eyes. It bothers him so much. I too cringe, slightly worried that this will lead to another streak of silence. We don’t speak for hours, until the sun goes down. He gets up and I trudge after him into his room. The darkness greets us.

I can feel it around us, it presses down like a quilt. I can’t sleep, so I listen to the clicks my eyelids make. I lie there listening to his breathing. If I am quiet enough I can hear his heartbeat.

In the light, there is no mention of heartbeats, only memes and blogs and television shows. Places to go, people to see, videos to make, events to attend. Like our dark counterparts do not exist. We laugh and joke, crying only during sad movies and while reading sad books. Emotions are frittered away. In the darkness, we show our true faces. 

He won tonight, I guess my body was too covered with wounds to put up much of a fight. We clawed and tore at each other, ending up on the floor again for the fourth night in a row. We fight for the sake of fighting, to work off our confusion and misery. I lose myself in the haze that is him and I assume he does the same. A I lay there, carpet burned and winded, he hovered over me. I felt something drip onto my lips, salty and damp. It might have been sweat. It might have been tears. Then he moved, my back arched, and the salt turned to sweetness. 

The next night I gain control. He wriggles under me as I lick a long, slow streak up his neck. My sobs stick in my throat, my emotions are written on his skin in purple. They look even more livid when lit by moonlight. 

He and I can be our most fundamental selves in the dark. We have no facade, no nothing. We are hollow loneliness in its purest form. 

I have never once spoken to him in the dark. I think he appreciates it. It would be an irrevocable breach of his trust if I tried to worm in while he was most vulnerable. I’ve given up on him being as open with me a long time ago. 

I can taste copper where his legs meet his hips, is it from my nails or his blade? He whines and I file the question away for another time. The salt of his sweat and metal of his blood combine on my tongue and turn to ambrosia. Nothing matters but this, this is purity. I can feel his muscles straining as I run my hands up and down his body. Slippery skin and rough latex everywhere. I smile and kiss him sloppily, he melts into me. 

After, while we sleep off the struggle, I listen to his lungs working. In and out. In and out. 

I want to peel him apart. I want to break his rib cage and replace his heart with my body. Maybe then he will love me back. Oh god please make him love me, I plead. He is my heaven and he is my hell. He fills me up and drains me. He gives me color and leaves my life monochrome. 

I don’t understand why I can’t leave him. What it is about this relationship that makes me accept suffering with open arms? 

I want to shake him. I want to grab his shoulders and roughly jerk him around until he truth is forced out of him. I want to reach down his throat and pull out the hidden things from hidden places. I wander to shatter his facade once and for all, to pull away that carefully cultivated mask that keeps anyone from knowing what he truly thinks. I want to pull his petals away until only the center is exposed. 

I know what his face will look like. I saw it earlier tonight. We were fighting on our battlefield of off white carpet when I hit the switch and turned the lamp on. Frozen in shock, I couldn’t do anything but gape at him. He looked so fragile, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. A faun in the headlights. Terror rushed through me and I quickly shut off the light. I can still see his face behind my eyes, beautiful and vulnerable. 

With these thoughts in mind I kiss the spot behind his ear, savoring the taste. He wakes up and flips over. I slide my hand down his chest, waiting for him to give me the all clear. He nods and I continue until he screams.


	4. Interlude in the Lounge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Standard warnings apply.

I have Phil on mute. In my phone, my laptop, my iPad. Everything. It makes me feel like I have room to breathe. It was an incredible feeling, the first time I did it. Such a small thing but so liberating. 

I thought I liked him. I thought I loved him. I think I still do, but it's hard, so very hard sometimes. The glitz and glamor went out of it when it became oppressive. I felt like I was living in a fishbowl to be honest. Everyone wanted to live vicariously through me and I hated it. I don’t belong to myself anymore. 

I shake these thoughts off, knowing I’ll have to exorcise them later. As of right now, I am content. Almost even happy, despite the wounds decorating my body. I wear them like a badge of honor. They remind me of last night and I feel a warm glow start inside me. 

Phil is sitting in the lounge, I walk behind him and rest my head on his, arms around his neck to keep my balance. If I am warm now, he will be warm back. 

“Hullo. Buying something?”

“Yeah.” He replies. “Something for a video.” 

How formal we are, it feels like all we ever talk about is Youtube. I can hardly blame him, I threw myself into my work as an excuse to avoid him. 

Whatever.

Just being around him shatters my defenses. Its really fucking annoying at times, but it makes me want to melt into him. As long as I don’t touch him I can maintain a certain amount of distance, emotionally as well as physically. But once we make contact its game over. 

I sit next to him on the couch, he leans against me tentatively and it burns like fire for a moment. I switch on the tv and scroll through Netflix. I love him sometimes, but it always comes with a cost. As we watch the images on the screen I wonder what its like to be him. So willing to trust me, so open, and so very in love. What a joke.

He’s upset with me. There’s turmoil inside him too. I know because he visits me at night, because he shudders and moans with something beyond simple lust. He’s absolutely furious with me for holding him at arms length. My body is a tapestry that tells the story of his hurt. 

Sometimes the guilt stabs me, but I can shove it away. I become who I must be to save myself, but I don’t know what I’m running from. I sometimes think that I’m holding myself back from being normal, from being happy and okay, but I can’t…

Its irrelevant. I’m trying to pay my bills just like any other person. So here I am with my friend on the precipice of some kind of apocalypse. Just as that thought crosses my mind, he shoves us closer to the edge.

“Dan,” He says tentatively, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.” I reply as neutrally as I can manage.

“What are we?” 

I quickly compose my features. “Best friends, flatmates, youtube buddies…”

“Be serious.”

“I am.” 

He drops the subject but my hackles are raised. Whatever the hell we are at night doesn’t exist during our normal, daily lives. I’m still slightly shocked that he brought it up. What happened to the natural order of things?! Why doesn’t he want to play along and pretend everything is okay?! Sentimental bullshit. I snarl to myself, but at the same time I don’t feel it. I feel like I’ve let him down, that I hurt him. If he didn’t say this stuff to me I wouldn’t feel obligated to respond! This isn’t his problem, I remind myself. This is me, its my problem. 

What the hell isn’t, anymore?


	5. Butterflies and Hurricanes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Standard warnings still apply

Dan walks like an old man at times. He’ll loosen up within minutes but when he first stands, he walks like every move hurts. 

Thats the only indication of anything being wrong. He laughs, he yells, he talks like he’s on top of the world. Its the quiet moments when he’s alone that everything seems to set in. 

Everyone around me rushes along, living their lives. Nobody blinks at the pair of us. Nobody sees the war within me, the turmoil within him. I asked him in the morning. I just wanted to know if he’d ever consider letting us be together, officially. Not just the slowly burning relationship we’ve built up over the years. He brushed me off the way he always does when confronted with actual emotions. He runs scared like a rabbit. What a coward. 

That night, he had his revenge. He must have hidden beside the bed, or ducked into the shadows, or even snaked under the mattress. The room looked empty when I walked in.

“Dan?” I whisper, tentatively. 

I am suddenly thrown on the bed. He comes out of nowhere. I swear under my breath. My shirt is violently yanked off, pants dragged down and thrown to the floor. He rips into me, I howl as nails rake down my sensitive sides. He bites the inside of my thigh and I feel a choked sob turn to a scream. 

He doesn’t respond to anything I gasp out. I can only hear my heartbeat in my ears. He flips me around roughly and I moan. He doesn’t have to say a word. Every single action tells me what he’s thinking. How dare you! He shrieks silently. Whatever hurricane has broken out of him consumes me and I can do nothing but wait for it to be over. 

The next morning I wake up to an empty bed and welts all over. I’m sore from head to toes and various fluids have dried to a crust. I go straight to the bathroom and examine my body. I’ve been scratched so hard in some places that I’ve bruised. 

What a bastard. 

After a quick shower I walk into the living room, wondering if he will talk to me. He doesn’t even acknowledge my presence. I inhale deeply.

I thought we’d reached an armistice. That our battles would help us work off whatever issues we had and let us be happy. Apparently not…

Two can play at this game. I can be just as ruthless as him. 

But I have to be careful. If I push too hard he’ll wall me off again, and I’m trying to force him open. I’m dimly aware that this is coming perilously close to crossing a line. I’m too drunk on power to care. 

I step slightly closer to him and he glances up. I move closer and closer until he is visibly uncomfortable. I watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. He’s trying his best to ignore me, so I slowly and lightly brush my hand over his arm. I can feel him tensing under me. Its intoxicating to realize he can’t shut me out, that he is forced to respond to my physical presence. 

“What do you want?” He asks through slightly gritted teeth. 

“Oh nothing.” I reply innocently as I run my hand down his bent leg. “Just wanted to remind you we have that dinner tonight.”

“That’s tonight?” He asks, irritation shining through. “Fuck.”

“C’est la vie.” I say in my worst french accent. I decided to needle him further. “Luckily, its formal wear: dinner jackets and nice trousers.”

“Luckily.” He says, narrowing his eyes. He knows I don’t like dressing up normally and he's pissed that I haven’t learned my lesson yet. 

“Cheer up, Dan.” I say with a verve that I don’t feel. “All our friends will be there.”

It is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. He exits the room in a huff to shower and I let the void creep into my bones. He won’t let me kiss him right now, I sorrowfully note. I love him so much. Everything I’m doing right now is because I love him and because I want him to love me back. I remember when we were younger, years and years ago and he was sweet for me. He was on his guard around everyone else, but never me. Then the walls went back up and I lost it.

In a way, his sweetness is even sweeter now that I know what its like to lose it. 

I check the clock and I whistle, realizing I should probably start getting ready. I don’t really want to go to this function, not when my muscles seize up from sitting too long and every pat on the back will leave tears in my eyes. The rush of adrenaline I got from touching Dan is starting to fade. I’m suddenly very tired. He appears with hair burnt straight and I smirk. Neither of us want to break the silence.

“Ready to go?” He asks just as the silence gets awkward.

“Mhm.” I hum and he rolls his eyes. What a tosser.

He shoulders past me, but I can’t resist squeezing his arm as he goes by. He shudders almost imperceptibly.

What a peach he is.


	6. Interlude at a Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Standard warnings apply.

I’ve always had mixed feelings about parties. This one is a networking function, the worst of the worst. I have to at least try to dial up the charm. Meanwhile, Phil is being a sad sack and playing the martyr, what a surprise. 

Everyone I know is trying to cheer him up and its fucking annoying. They’re loud and obnoxious and I feel irritated on behalf of the people who aren’t in the clique. God, why doesn’t he try to pretend to be okay like the rest of us? We’re all falling apart at the seams but do we try to get attention for it? No! Jesus…

The bitterness falls into my soul right on schedule. There’s no reason for my feelings, it’s irrational as hell. I know all of this but the noise is grating on my brain and I just want to be alone. 

Of course he’ll apologize and try to act like he feels the same way I do and I’ll want to scream. I’ll want to shove him and yell that he should stop acting like he understands because if he did, we’d never talk again. I soothe myself with the knowledge that I’ll exorcise these thoughts bubbling within me as soon as I get home. 

The moon shines through the window and it pulls out memories that shouldn’t be thought of in civilized company. I don’t like to think about our nighttime activities, but when your body is buried in bruises and welts that you haven’t placed there, its hard to ignore. Every vigorous handshake, every hug leaves my nerves aching

I sneak a look at Phil, who has overcome his “tiredness” and is laughing with the rest of the cool kids. I suppress an eye roll with great difficulty. What a weenie. 

He usually manages to overpower me at night because the cuts I’ve made burn like fire from the sweat and struggle, despite the fact that I’m stronger than him. I wince as I stand and wave off the concerned looks that float my way. I grab a drink from the bar and down it. The bartender asks if I’d like another and I shake my head. Its only 9 and I want to be home alone. Then a thought occurs to me. 

I make my way through the crowd, mingling and engaging in small talk. I smile on cue, I laugh when they do, I crack jokes and tell stories. The attention slightly inflates me and I preen like a peacock. After three glasses of champagne I feel like I’m glowing. Phil watches me and I do my damnedest not to look back at him. I swan about for a hours and then we leave. 

That night he grips my jaw and forces me to stare at him. The moonlight illuminates the dips and angles of his face.

“Stay with me, Daniel.” he growls when my eyes flutter shut. 

I do.


	7. From the City Lights and Sounds Deep into the Dark

There is a monster in my chest. 

I can feel it snapping and snarling at me. 

I love the look in his eyes when I slide past his defenses and spread them open. I love the tension in his muscles when he is afraid. I cannot live without his heartbeat slapping wetly inside his chest. I cannot breathe without feeling the goosebumps he gets when I kiss the honeyed sweetness of his throat.

He surrenders to me more than I surrender to him. I used to think it would delay the growth of the beast, but it just makes it hungrier. He is editing now, I lean against the doorframe and watch. My breathing is soft and I don’t move a muscle. I remember the deer, the terror on his face and the monster smiles with long pointed teeth. I hear the kettle start to whistle and walk to the kitchen, still cradling his moment of vulnerability to my chest. 

The monster in me is purring while I sit on the counter examining the memory from every angle. 

The monster vanishes the minute I hear the familiar creak. In its place is a hollow emptiness. I want to cry but no tears actually form. I continue to sip my tea and ignore the incriminating noise of paper bandage wrappers being opened.

I breath in deeply, still feeling like there isn’t enough air. The door bangs open, he's being more careless than usual, and he returns to the room to edit.

I scowl to myself. We drift around the apartment like lost planets, occasionally knocking into each other but mostly alone in our own sad orbits.

I hear him swear while editing and the cupboard opens again. I don't think about it. He comes in and shows me a funny video about geese. I resolve to feed the monster that night. 

Later, at night in the throes of our violent passion, I pin his arms above his head. I feel a curious sense of deja vu as I hold him there and snarl in his face like a lion asserting its regality. I can’t see his face in the darkness, but I can feel the tremors passing through his body as he shudders against me. I imagine the fear in his eyes and let go of the light.

The next day I watch his new video. You can still see the marks on his sensitive throat. Over time both of you became careless. We are becoming careless. God knows what would happen if someone saw the bruises that dot your frames. But neither of you can control yourselves.

The watchers can see the marks too. No matter how much foundation he tries to use or what high collared shirts he wears, a livid violet spot peeks out. The comments take it and run, hypothesizing or just making noise for the sake of it. “Omg, is that what I think it is?” “is that a hickey?”

But we are not real. I remind myself, tears pooling on my lashes. We are not a couple. We are not together. We are not, we are not, we are not, we are not, we are not, we are, we are, we are…

I gasp that out in the darkness. As my damp fringe hangs in my face and my lungs wheeze after a particularly vicious struggle I hiss, “We are, we are, we are.” 

He hears me, I don’t know if he understood exactly but he had an inkling. He’s not stupid. His body jerks and I feel every muscle twitch. I lean down and bite him hard, hard enough to taste blood, in an attempt to quell even the most minute trace of rebellion. I am reinvigorated, in my haze even the iron of his ichor tastes like honey. Then the unthinkable happens. 

He fights back. He fights back against our unspoken rules. I clearly won control for the night! But nevertheless I feel myself being pinned to the floor. I growl in warning and fight to reverse our positions. He may be taller than I am, but I’m not weighed down by self inflicted injuries. He tries to stand, to take advantage of his size but I shove him down on the bed and he finally gives in. I whisper curses against his flesh as I touch him. He moans and melts, I know that I have won. His chest heaves and I feel something inside of me swell up. I quiet it by giving him another hickey, this time on his chest. It tastes just as sweet as his neck.

I hold him as we fall asleep, memorizing every hair on his head. My heart feels like it will climb up my throat and jump out of my chest. I look down and the truth punches me in the stomach: my heart has already left my body and is currently lying in my arms.

I felt a bandage on his hip and cried when he wasn’t looking at me. I wish I could carry him away from this world. Away from his life, away from this city. I want to take him to a little house with a thatched roof on a moor. It would be empty and foggy, with no neighbors, no subscribers, nothing but us. Nothing would hurt him. 

But he is the danger, and I cannot separate him from himself.

I cannot even separate myself from him. We’ve become one being. Unavoidable, I suppose. Some religions would say our nights created our union, that the act of sex makes us two halves of a whole. Those same religions would probably damn us to hell. Perhaps we’re already there. I know I am. Maybe…

Maybe nothing. This is stupid. Nothing about this train of thought is helpful or relevant to my current situation. I cradle him to me, then put a hand around his neck. I squeeze ever so slightly and his eyelids move around behind his closed lids. 

I press a quick kiss to his mouth and walk out of the apartment 

The night swirls around me in the sights and sounds of the city. Cars pass, fog rises, and the stars are dim and far away. 

Where I used to live, the stars seemed so immediate. I used to daydream about swimming in them. 

Now, I dream about drowning in them.

The water under the bridge is as dark as the night sky. I rest my elbows on the railing and watch the lights reflect on the waves. A cold breeze ruffles my hair and I sigh. The lights of the buildings drown out the starlight. There aren’t any stars reflected in the river. Maybe that’s what happens when you live in a city. The lights of the multitudes drown out the fleeting, fragile lights of the individuals.

I watch the sun rise and the city come to life. I take my time walking back to the apartment.


	8. Interlude As the World Shifts

Even though he makes me want to rip my eyeballs out of my face, I think I love him…at least occasionally. I certainly think about kissing him, even in the light. He is the one to initiate most of it, just a quick press of lips and as he leaves my room. I kiss his temple in the mornings when I go out for a jog. He hints that he wants more. (We don’t talk about the dark sloppy stolen kisses that are more teeth than tongue.) I want more now all of a sudden, and I feel a slight twinge of arousal. I quell it with a thought as per usual and move on with my day. 

I pride myself on being strong enough to push those feelings away. I’ve got a core of steel that I’ve forged for myself. There’s something there that keeps me going, one foot in front of the other. 

I’ve got my coping mechanisms. I’ve got my ability to compartmentalize. I’ve got my ability to wall my entire being off. It protects me, and isn’t nearly as lonely as it sounds. Its not lonely unless someone tries to breach those walls. 

He always breaches those walls. He just has to exist for me to want to scream and put the breaks on everything. He tries to worm his way through my defenses and I’ve got to perform constant maintenance to keep myself safe.

Is it to keep myself safe? Or him? Or am I just too much of a coward to say how I really feel?

A ping awakens me from my reverie. I know its him and I groan. Whenever he texts me, I’m forced to respond with sweet nothings. Assurances that I still like him and want to be friends with him. I praise him for whatever he wants to be praised for. Its exhausting. I don’t understand why nobody else seems to feel like an attention whore. Why do I have to feel cheap, like I’m begging for scraps? Is this just another thing about trusting people that I don’t understand? 

I really don’t like to do things for him. I’d prefer to just let both of us pretend that we were still cool, independent 20 year olds on the cusp of adulthood. Here I am, sucked into something that feels as binding as marriage with no escape in sight.

After all, you can’t really escape from yourself.


	9. Soft Breath, Beating Heart. As I Whisper in Your Ear...

The sun shines bleakly through the window. He’s napping on the couch. He does that more often, he doesn’t usually get a full night’s sleep anymore. I want to wake him up but I hold myself back. I calculate in my head, how quiet to I need to be to keep him from hearing me turn the tv on? Should I just pretend to read a magazine? I cycle through the excuses that would conceal my need to watch him sleep.

He twitches, hypnagogic jerks. He gets them a lot. I decided that the tv would be the less creepy route, if he questions me I can always say I was intently watching him to be sure the volume wasn’t too loud. 

His breaths are slow and steady and the jerks seem to have subsided. I can almost feel his warmth from where I am sitting. He looks very soft and sweet. The dust particles dance in the air and the soft swell of music fits the theme. Everything for a moment seems to grind to a halt. This is my version of heaven, suspended in a bubble. I can believe that this is what I’ve always dreamed of. That I could go and kiss his temple to wake him up and he’d pull me down to lie with him. That we could hold hands in public and go out on dates. That we could have soft, loving sex that ends with blissful cuddling and the only thing I’d feel is smooth, soft skin. A few tears gather on my lower lashes and the world starts to smudge…then the doorbells goes off. 

His eyes fly open, but I’ve already leapt up off the couch. I fly to the stairs, banging my shin on the coffee table in the process. I’m dimly aware by the time I reach the door, huffing and out of breath, that the magic has passed. After I’ve taken the parcels, I stand by the door and let the disappointment rise up. I don’t want to go up and face the reality, I contemplate staying at the door forever until a wave of pain from my leg interrupts my thoughts. 

“Shit.” I swear under my breath as the ascent to the apartment begins. I’m trying to rub the bruise and carry the packages at the same time. When I’ve reached the top, Dan is waiting for Sonic 4 to load.

“This is a trip down memory lane.” I laugh, as I walk past. I set the packages down carefully in my room and return to the lounge. 

He’s got his tongue between his teeth in concentration. I watch his every move like it holds the meaning to life. He flicks his hair from his eyes and I have a vision of him from what feels like a million years ago. From the first year of being…whatever we are. What a beautiful time that was. 

A wave of affection flows through me. I really do care for him. He’s everything I’ve ever wanted, stubborn and childish though he can be. I’d do almost anything for him. I half reach to touch his arm and he jerks away. Its a minute movement but I know I saw it.

The warm glow of love freezes in its tracks. Cold, creeping bitterness takes its place.

This is unfair in so many ways.

I think of how unfair it is that he seems to hold all the cards. How he can do whatever he wants and I’ll let him, but the moment I say something that doesn’t entirely agree with him the entire world has to shut down. I think of how much affection I’d be willing to spend on him if he’d just let me, and how little affection and comfort he is willing to give in return. I think of how much time I spend trying to let him into my world and how hard he tries to keep himself away from me.

I sit down next to him and he hands me the controller. The monster inside me nudges against my chest and I know what to do. I look him dead in the eyes, and say the words that I know will spook him more than anything else I could do to him.


	10. You Are the Blood Flowing Through My Fingers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All warnings still apply, some are a little more intense for this chapter.

“I love you.” He says, blue eyes piercing me like daggers of ice, although the comment is meant to be offhand. 

For a moment I am floored with terror. I want to flee. To head for the hills. How could he say that?! To me of all people! I spent a year speaking to him only when strictly necessary! My heart thumps and the bottom falls out of my stomach. 

“Love you too.” I say, forcing the words out as butterflies ricochet off of my entrails. I feel like the world has tilted off its axis. I thought we’d avoid that phrase. I used to want to say it, a million years ago, but he never seemed ready but now that I’ve locked myself away again he says it?! What the hell. 

I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t mean to. I was just lonely in a way that defied reality. My life is like a twisted genie. I ask for something and I get it, but in a way that fucks me over.

I smile at him and excuse myself from the room. I feel like I failed him but there’s nothing to be done. Nothing except… 

I fucking bolt. I go to my room and grab the ugly cloth bag. Only when I reach the bathroom can I finally relax. I strip off my pants and sit on the floor. I remove the x-acto blade and slice. Line after line, some split to white and I love them for it. A line from my hip to the tops of my thighs. I’m still not okay. Its not enough. It should hurt! Its a solid five inches, broken only by cuts that are healing over. Why doesn’t it hurt?! I move to my lower belly and give a few slices. Experimental mostly, like the others it bleeds but won’t ache beyond the initial bite. I am reminded of being seventeen and having to crab walk to the toilet paper in order to wipe up the evidence without it staining my clothes. It barely hurts, even when I roughly wipe it. In a fit of rage I bite my arm hard enough to bruise. I grab a package of bandaids and work on patching myself up. There’s blood on my hands, bright red and sticky. There’s a few drops on the floor and some old wound has left blood on the inside of my jean pockets. I wipe the floor before it can dry.

I sit down again, back to the door, and slip out the blade I stole from a shaving razor when I was fifteen on holiday. I slice below my left hipbone and am rewarded with white every time. The feeling my stomach finally starts to ebb and I bandage myself up. The tissue goes into the trash and the blades into the bag. The cupboard creaks as I close it. 

I walk out, thinking about how chubby I look today and grimace. I sit on the couch and the cuts finally start to dance on my nerves.

Phil smiles at me slightly, still gripping the controller, and I grin back, but the feeling in my stomach remains. 

I can never win.


	11. Revenge Will Surely Come

The monster is vindicated, but the man is in turmoil. I’m going to pay for that sooner or later.

Dan doesn’t forget these things. Even though the mask he wears seems impenetrable, he scrawls the truth on himself. 

I suddenly feel horribly guilty. I know where he ran to, where he always runs to. 

I can only hope he takes it out on me tonight. I’ll accept it as my twisted penance. I felt the blood pounding in my ears after I said it. I watched the initial shock as it bloomed on his face, his eyes went wide and he went rigid for a millisecond. Then he caught himself. 

Then he left. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t know where he went.

He’s back now, sitting on the couch beside me. It digs at me deeply, I’m trying to concentrate on the game but I keep dying. He laughs derisively as Sonic drowns for the last time. I look at him and he stares back at me, as innocently as a newborn lamb. Something tangles inside me and I realize I have to know for certain. 

“Do you want to give it a go, then?” I ask, injecting just a hint of irritation in my voice.

“Yeah,” He says, with a hint of cockiness, “I’m not completely terrible at this.”

I sneer and lean over to give him the controller. I press down on his arm, which is laid protectively over his upper thigh, to steady myself. He winces and shove me gently. 

“Careful, I’ve got a bruise there.”

“Sorry.” I mutter. My face heats up as tears start to press at my throat.

He shrugs off the apology and turns intently to the game. I deserve whatever he decides to do to me. I really do. 

The apartment feels too cluttered, too cramped. He’s embedded in every wall, in every dust mote. 

They’re all him, staring at me, blaming me. This is your fault, they seem to whisper. I make a noise low in my throat and he glances at me out of the corner of his eye.

“You alright there?” 

“Yeah. I’m fine.” I say, surprised at how our roles seem to have reversed. He turns his attention back to the TV.

I’ve given up on watching him, instead scrolling mindlessly through my phone. I talk to a few of my friends, read a few articles, and even start to plot out an idea for a new video when he interrupts me.

“Hey Phil.” He says with a curious note of flatness in his otherwise tentative voice . “I think we need to take a break tonight.”

I immediately snap to attention. “What?” 

“I’m planning on filming a video soon and I don’t want to look like a total zombie.”

“Oh, uh okay.” I say, blinking rapidly. 

“Nothing personal.” He says, watching me for my reaction. 

“Of course it isn’t.” 

He nods, looking away somewhat uneasily. I stand up, feeling a slight sense of triumph in towering over him.

“Where are you going?” He asks, disinterested. 

“To my room.” I say, clipped. He nods and I leave. I stumble to my room and lock the door. I fall onto my bed and let the tears flow. I’ve broken him before, I know. But this is the first time I’ve seen the direct cause and effect. The storm that leads to calm. 

I don’t even have a way to gain atonement. All I can do here is burn. Did he do this on purpose? Did he know that this would wreck me more than any fist could? Is he sitting out there, reveling in his victory. If I tried to pull this on him, he’d sulk for a week. I deserve it though. I pushed every button I could and then couldn’t handle it when he retaliated. 

When people told me about being in love, I always pictured it differently. I thought it would be easy when you found that person. That you would connect and it would feel like nothing you’ve ever had before. Every good moment would be bliss, and they’d be there to prop you up when you were sad and return you to happiness. I thought it would feel like there’s nothing else to live for beside them. 

Then I grew up. I learned that love is work. I like to think I’d embrace it, that I would be motivated to make it work. I’d be patient and understanding and helpful and all those things you need for a good relationship. A friend told me a relationship was like a house. If a lightbulb breaks then you don’t sell the house, you change the lightbulb.

I’m not sure this house can be fixed by changing a lightbulb. You’d have to change all the lightbulbs in the house. You’d have to pry the boards off the windows. You’d have to wipe a thick layer of dust off of it. Its so mangled that I’m not even sure it is a house at all. I feel like I’m watching the house crumble to ashes.

How do you fix a house that’s engulfed by flames? I have no idea. It used to feel like a house, like a home. Like I was on top of the world and nothing could stop me, as long as I had him. Then one day everything changed. 

I should have seen the signs. He was always less available than I was, in more ways than one. Then one day he stopped talking to me. He’d act like he didn’t see me, or he’d straight up ignore me when we went out. He would barely look at me, but he’d act so incredibly normal around everyone else. Then one day he just started talking to me again, like everything was fine. 

When I confronted him, he told me that it was his problem. That everything was getting to be too much for him, he was busy and really needed time to focus on his youtube channel because people were expecting more from him.

The only time he let some of his true feelings show is when I said it upset me to see him acting normally around others. 

__

“Its still not you, its how people react to me when I’m around you. When I’m around my friends, nobody cares. Nobody makes comments or even blinks when I’m with them.”

I wince. Its still a sore subject, like a nerve that’s just lying there. We try to dance around it but neither of us can forget.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts. I pull up the brainstorming notes I started and continue working on them, resolutely ignoring the burning house that is always in the back of my mind.


	12. 'cause I Want You So Much, But I Hate Your Guts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All warnings still apply

I can’t bleed enough. I can’t burn enough. I could drain myself dry and it would never be enough. 

I’ve got the tears in my chest but they’re not going to crawl up. The butterflies feel like mini lightning that strikes for a second and dissipate. 

I’m going to rip both of us apart, I swear to God. I’ll shatter us and set the pieces on fire. I’ll do whatever it takes to finally end this.

Then he looks at me and everything dies down to a simmering resentment. I smile and he does the same. I could kill him right now, I could absolutely devastate both of us.

But at the moment, he is devastating me.

_“I’m going to say goodnight now. That way you can get your work done and I don’t get sad.”_

I feel that omnipresent resentment bubble up in me. He’s going to get sad? About me not giving a shit about whatever stars he sees in the sky while visiting his parents? I’m trying to get stuff done! I’m trying to build something for myself! 

That resentment is born out of shame for making him feel bad. There’s also anger because he is making me feel bad. I never get to tell him when he makes me want to stab myself. I’m so done with everything. I’m done with him, I swear I am. 

But everyone is watching us. I’ve got no choice. I sigh and close my eyes. I lean my head into the desk and grope around for my bag…

I feels the tears closer to my throat than anything. He feels like such a dreamer at times. He loves me so much but I just can’t get myself to reciprocate! Why can’t I? What’s broken inside me?! I don’t know how to deal with any of my feelings, how am I supposed to handle it when he foists his on me as well?

Sometimes I wish I could beat understanding into him. I’m not an outwardly violent person (unless you count violence against yourself) but sometimes I have literal dreams about killing people or hurting them. They always deserve it, but the catharsis it should bring is incomplete.

Sometimes I feel that he talks to me like a child would. That his personality and mine just don’t get along. Sometimes I curse technology and how instantly accessible it has made all of us. He could be off on a trip and I still won’t get a respite. How unfair. 

I’m still feeling that frustration in my gut so I get up and start to pace. Bad decision, the healing wounds on me begin to itch. I can’t scratch them or the bandages will fall off and the irritation will cause them to start bleeding again. 

The healing process is the tedious bit, but slightly rewarding at the same time. Depends on the style and location of the cuts, the burn will be immediate or slightly delayed. Then, as the wounds start to fix themselves, they continue to burn or occasionally hurt in a sharp, stabbing way. Then the itching begins which, depending on my mood, either make me want to peel my skin off or a annoying yet satisfying reminder of what I’ve done.

This is really fucked up. 

But also worth it. It reminds me that I’m not the only one hurting people, that people are hurting me back and I am justified for how I’m feeling. I need that physical evidence, I crave it. Nobody has ever believed me until it was too late.

Nobody starts out self harming with an x-acto blade. I told my first therapist (who I wanted to see because the sight of myself sent me into a fit of tears everyday) that I was thinking about cutting, how it would feel. She told me it was fine. That cutting was for people who were struggling with deep heavy emotions and numbness.

A month or so later I scratched my arm up with a paper clip. They weren’t deep or particularly bloody, but I felt a sense of euphoria that I’d never felt before. I stopped seeing my therapist and started to experiment. One day, I recalled a book where a character, who was an artist, used an x-acto knife. My mom had taken several art classes and had a few. 

The cuts got deeper, I’ve still got keloid scars on my forearms. Of course, I got caught. Those types of cuts are enormously difficult to hide. 

After that I was more careful. I cut my hips and thighs, places where people wouldn’t necessarily see. I used bandages to ensure the scars would at least remain flat. I’m a tapestry of scar tissue, but with plausible deniability. 

Now, I am an adult. I can do what I like with my own damn body.


	13. I Want You to Stay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't have time to post yesterday so I've decided to be nice and post three chapters today
> 
> Standard warnings continue to apply

He’s an adult and he can do what he likes. 

I am an adult and I suffer because I don’t want him to do what he does. 

We have never talked about it. Once and only once did he mention it. We went to Disneyland after a Vidcon and, in the hopes of escaping the California heat, slipped into the Animation Academy. The screens were playing clips of Disney movies and we sat squished close together, leaving room for others who were trying to keep cool.

The songs cycled through without either of us saying anything. Then Let it Go came on and he leaned a little closer to me.

“I know everybody hates this song by now, but I wish it had come out when I was fourteen. Back when my parents caught me cutting. It would have been my anthem.”

I didn’t know how to respond so I nodded and leaned a little closer too. He seemed to be satisfied with that.

I’m sure one would expect for me to say I wish I’d been more inquisitive. That I’d taken that moment to talk with him about it, that he wanted me to say something. Those people don’t know Dan the way I do. Plus, the middle of California Adventure is not the ideal place for a heart to heart. 

All the same, I’ve never had the courage to bring it up to him. He’s made it very clear that it is a subject we do not discuss. 

I just don’t know what to do. He doesn’t want help and I don’t want to make things worse. A hot flush of shame runs through me, I already have. I fucked up really really badly.

A knock on my door pulls me from my self loathing. 

“I made too much tea, want some?” He asks.

“Sure,” I say “I’ll be right there.”

“Want a honey spoon?” 

“Those are for special occasions, Dan!” I object strongly. We got them in a pack from Disneyland, there are only 8. 

“We’re on a blue planet hurtling through space towards inevitable demise, may as well eat them while we’ve got them.” 

I roll my eyes good-naturedly. That fool has probably been watching the latest History channel doomsday show. I fling open my door and head to the kitchen. He’s playing Zero 7’s album, Simple Things, in the background. 

“The other one is in the freezer.” He says stirring his cup. 

“Thanks.” I pull it out and begin trying to peel off the wrapper. He hands me the scissors and our fingers brush. 

He returns to the couch and the program, Polaris just barely perceptible in the background. He glances at me and I recognize the unspoken request to sit with him. So I do. 

I could never resist him. 

We’re watching show after show of ridiculous pseudo scientific/historical garbage but I’m having the time of my life. We debate the veracity of the claims, getting especially heated during the commercial breaks of Ancient Aliens. 

After a few hours he sighs and topples over onto me. I freeze for a second, waiting for him to push me away and right himself. I’m stiff for a whole ten minutes before I work up the courage to drape an arm around him. 

This is nice, I think to myself, sucking on the honey spoon like a lollipop. Its a bad habit I picked up from Dan. Stubborn, impatient, fiery Dan. I press a tentative kiss into his hair. He doesn’t respond. 

It makes me 2 more programs to realize he’s actually taking an impromptu nap. He looks like a child to me, sleep smoothing the lines from his face. 

I watch him then feel a sudden flash of anger. He is no longer a child. He’s no longer the long haired nineteen year old boy with a head full of dreams and nightmares. He’s an adult whether he wants to be or not.

The moment passes quickly. He nuzzles my arm and all of my annoyance falls away. I touch his face gently. I feel so lost, so very broken. I just don’t understand. He doesn’t understand. I found a note that he’d scrawled on his desk, when I googled it I found a post from Tumblr that had been circulating a few years back. “He told me/If you want to cut yourself/then you’re going to take my arm/look me in the eyes/and cut as many times as you would yourself. I told him/I couldn’t hurt you like that/and then I understood/everything.” 

Dan had draw question marks at the end. Something twists inside of my and my head flares up. This doesn’t feel right. Cuddling is not what we do, we hold each other at arm’s length during the day. 

When he wakes up, I am no longer there. I’m not even in the apartment. I’m sitting on a bench watching the reflections on the river with an open package of paracetamol that I am eating like candy. 

My mobile pings. Its him, asking where the fuck I am. I send a shrug emoji and I know that I’m getting on his nerves. He hates when I use his tactics against him. 

“If you’re out, get some milk.”

“Fine.”

When I get back to the apartment he’s squirreled himself away somewhere. Sulking…what a surprise. Something flesh colored and warped catches my eye.

He sheds bandages like animals shed fur. I squish down my revulsion and scoop it up. Without looking too closely I chuck it in the garbage and exhale. 

It feels like thunder is crackling off of me. The apartment seems too quiet, waiting for something to snap. I march down the hallway and past my room, and fling his door open with a bang. He jumps slightly and stands there staring at me, frozen. 

That night I give him the best he’s ever had. Clawing, biting, powerful. I taste blood when I kiss him and he yells my name. 

I take copper on his hip and he lets out a whimper. The fever dream of this union, this siren song of madness and lust swirls around us until it reaches a crescendo.

After we finish, I am left propped up over him in the dark, Muscles shake with exertion as I feel the sweat dripping off my body and onto his. 

“Fuck you.” He whispers 

I kiss him gently on the temple. “I’ll stay with you.” I mean it. I will stay with him tonight until he wakes. I will stay with him tomorrow. I will stay with him for weeks, for months, for years. I will stay with him until the end of time.

His hands wrap around me tentatively. I hold my breath knowing that movement will make them flee. He presses himself inch by inch along my body until we are almost one being. We have come full circle, loving to hateful to loving once more. Can this last? I doubt it will, anymore than it did originally. Balance is key and the pendulum will have to swing back. For now I will exult in his touch. I revel in his warmth. I want to shove him to the floor. 

Instead I pull his face to mine. Kissing his forehead first, then his eyelids. My lips lightly touch his notes and finally his mouth. He jerks slightly when I breath on his neck, but settles when I rest my head on his collarbone.

I fall asleep like that. 

My only memory of peace.


	14. What If

As I hold Phil to me, the last words he said to me echo in my head. 

_I’ll stay with you._

I’ve never believed that before.

_I’ll stay with you._

I’ve always felt trapped by that before.

_I’ll stay with you._

What have I done to deserve this? 

_I’ll stay with you._

I’ve hurt you so many times before!

_I’ll stay with you._

What do I do?!

_I’ll stay with you._

What if I want him to?!

_I’ll stay with you._

What if I’m scared? 

_I’ll stay with you._


	15. You Were There at the Turn Caught in the Burning Glow

I do stay. I wake up to see him watching me. Soft and sleepy, eyes bleary. I kiss him on the soft skin on the corner of his eye.

“I’ll make breakfast.” He offers and I nod. He slips out of bed and pads into the kitchen. I smile, still slightly sleepy. I roll out of bed and begin to make up the bed. I pull the sheets off and freeze. Whatever sleepy-soft contentment I felt was rudely yanked away.

There’s blood on the bedsheets. The grey is stained with splotches of red. Its horrific. It's a mess. I’m dimly aware I’m breathing shallowly and just standing there, clutching the sheets.

I feel like someone knocked the wind out of me. The world has slowed down and I can taste the acid burn of adrenaline in the back of my throat. 

That copper taste. Like putting a penny in your mouth. Thats what this was, it had to have been. He wouldn’t have gotten up in the night and done it? Right? 

I sit down, sheets still bunched in my hands. Numb to everything and, at the same time, flinching like I was being electrocuted. With shaky hands I strip the mattress cover off, ignoring the splotches on the mattress itself. I don’t need to see the evidence.

He’s just turned off the stove when I trudge into the kitchen. He wears only a long t-shirt, and it isn’t long enough to hide the relentless row of red that marches from his hip to his upper thigh.

I make a choked noise and he spins around.

“Phil?” He saids, looking terrified and concerned.

“D-Dan.” I choke out. 

“What’s wrong?” He looks confused when he sees what I'm holding. I tilt it and the sunlight hits the brown-red stain. His face goes from slack to apprehensive to irritation to fear and finally to guarded, mask-like neutrality.

I drip a few tears. They crash on the floor, a few hit his bare feet and he flinches. I’m standing there like a child. He just watches me as I slowly but inexorably break down.

“Phil…” He starts but stops. I just shake my head and more tears escape.

“I’m so sorry…” I start. He opens his mouth to interrupt me, so I talk louder.

“No..Dan, wait, hear me out…please.

“I’m _sorry_ Dan, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry that I scared you badly enough to do this. I’m sorry I made you do this to yourself.”

“You didn’t.” He said, deathly white.

“Dan, if I could hurt myself to make it up to you I…”

“I don’t want you to do that.” He says flatly. “I don’t want anything from you at all.”

I stand there, feeling fluid trickle down my face. I feel suddenly very small. 

“Dan, its my fault..”

“Its my life and my choices, Phil.”

I shake my head emphatically in response. He still doesn’t get it!

“I mean it!” I practically wail. “I’m so stupid!”

“Jesus..Phil…” He says, rubbing the bridge of his nose. I can see something building in him that he’s never let me see before.

Anger. True, bright red anger. He’s two seconds from snapping.

“Dan, please, just let me help you!”

“Stop.” 

“We can solve this together! I want help from you too!” 

“I don’t want to be your therapist Phil.”

“I have to make it up to you!”

“Stop trying to take responsibility for my actions, Phil! Stop trying to make this about you!” He breaks off with an angry sigh. “Look, I think we need some space right now. I think we need a few days or so to get our heads back on straight.” 

I wince. When he says ‘we’ I know he means me. I drop the sheets on the floor and flee to my room. 

I throw some clothes into a duffel bag. I toss a jacket over the bed and rush to the bathroom and collect up a toothbrush and other toiletries. I’m rushing, desperately trying to flee this crumbling tower of cards. I just don’t know what to do! It just became too much! The smoke finally got to me and I had to leave the burning house. 

Now Dan, stands alone in the kitchen as our home burns around him. In my overwrought mind’s eye I can see the flames swirling around him like a robe. His eyes burn but his face is neutral. Then the flashpoint is reached and he is whited out by the combustion.


	16. You Think You're Running Away (I Think You're Running in Place)

My stomach clenches. My hands are numb and my tentative good mood has fallen away. 

Sorry, did I say fallen away? I meant ripped from my hands. I can feel the ragged hole where it used to be. 

I can still hear his feet as he ran, I mean literally ran down the stairs and out the door. The neighbors are probably calling the cops as we speak. I don’t know where he’s gone. I doubt to a friends’ place. Our pancakes lie on the counter, cold and forgotten. 

I’m so stupid. I woke up this morning and felt something I hadn’t felt in a very very long time. 

Hope. I was hopeful. 

I shouldn’t have been. People like me aren’t built to be loved. We’re built to destroy ourselves by any means necessary. We try to starve it out, cut it out, drug it out, sex it out, to subject ourselves to anything and everything in the hopes of paying our penance to the world and finally be allowed to exist in it. 

I can feel those tears in me. They're in my throat and nothing else. I turn and step on the bloody sheets, still lying on the floor. I look at them then lift my shirt to glance at my cuts.

Its been years. Its been somewhere around 10 years. 10 years of this. 10 years of lies and of secrecy and of blood and pain. I’m bound to my body with scar tissue. 

The magnitude of it washes over me and I sink down to the floor. I am 14 years old again on all fours, sobbing into my rug because they found me out. I’m 14 years old having to see the pain in my parents' eyes as they wonder where they went wrong. I’m 14 years old and not understanding why I chose this path for myself. I’m 14 years old and, for the first time in 8 months, I am breaking down. 

Its not a pretty cry, and it’s not a delicate drop of rain. Its an ugly, open mouthed sob. I’m dripping saliva and snot and tears onto that bloody sheet. The sob rises in pitch to a wail and soon I am bawling. The apartment echoes with it. I’m keening and so incredibly alone. I’ve pushed everyone away. Family, friends, even love. I’ve been so focused on protecting myself from life that I forgot to live it. 

I’m 14 years old picking up a blade again because I missed the feeling. I’m 15 using it as a weapon to get attention from a boy who was already taken. I’m 16 and I’m using it to fortify myself. I’m 17 and suffering from stress and exhaustion, trying to give myself something to focus on. I’m 18 and scared to grow up. I’m 19 and I’m afraid to give myself to another person. I’m 20 and I’m insecure. I’m 21 and I’m tired of living in a fishbowl and being pressured by people I don’t know. The list continues. I’m trapped in a cycle. 

I’m running and running but I’ve always come back here. 

The sky outside darkens and lightening starts to flash. Inside the kitchen, where I am hunched on the floor, the fluorescent lights flicker and go out, leaving me alone in the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end is nigh


	17. I Will Reach Inside Just to Find My Heart is Beating

I’ve turned the TV on to give the bland hotel room some personality. Everything is so white and clean, sterile and empty. I’ve got the news in the background as I flop down and start scrolling through Twitter.

“…an entire power grid in London has been completely knocked out by the high velocity winds. The city says the electricity will not be fixed for a few days due to the danger posed by rains…”

I look up and shake my head. Maybe its a good thing I got a hotel room. That thought just brings back a lot of very recent, bad memories and I immediately switch the news to a standard soap opera. While the characters bumble their way through life I get a text from Dan. What a surprise.

“Are you inside?” Short, sweet and to the point. 

I consider briefly ignoring it and leaving him to his guilt. Then I sigh and tell him yes. I send the info for the Super 8 I’m staying at, just in case. 

Likely all he’ll do is check that I said yes and not respond. 

I lay on the bed staring at the ceiling for an hour. I can’t listen to music, because all the songs remind me of him. I can’t watch movies because I hear him making sarcastic comments in my head. Eventually I open the window shades to watch the storm swirling outside and I can’t even see it without being reminded of the argument that swirls inside me like a hurricane!

The day ticks by at the speed of a snail. My feelings roll and boil inside me, no respite or even rest. I fucked up. I fucked up and he’s probably going to leave me. The hollow ache increases, and I can’t tell if its hunger or pure despair. 

I hear a knock on the door. I ignore it, but soon it becomes a pounding.

“Alright, alright. I’m coming!” Christ, I must be upset. That northern sound is creeping into my vowels.

I open the door, assuming that the hotel is trying to communicate with me for some strange reason. Instead I am met with a very wet Dan, who is breathing heavily.

I double take and stare at him open mouthed.

“Can I come in?” He asks tentatively. Still dumbstruck, I step aside. He enters but then stops and stands there.

“Why are you here?”I ask. He opens his mouth and then closes it. 

“We need to talk.” 

I wince. Here it comes. The end of all things. I just have to say one thing before he leaves. 

“Dan, I love you.”

“Phil…please.” He says wincing. “Please stop saying that right now. I can’t deal with it at the best of times.”

I sigh. “I’m sorry, but…you know you don’t have to say it back, right?”

“That’s not the point!” He says emphatically. “Its not something that only affects one person. I really need you to just back off.” 

I fall silent and so does he. We both look at each other and smile sadly.

“We’ve got a long way to go.” He says and I laugh bitterly.

“No kidding.” 

He walks to the bed and sits on the edge. I do the same, sitting so my back faces him. 

“I’m willing to try.” He says suddenly. I turn to look at him, but he’s resolutely staring out the window.

“Dan…I…” I don’t know how to respond, so I just sit there dumbstruck for the second time that night. Time and space is frozen, the universe waits with bated breath to see where he is going with this. 

“But we need to talk.” He says. His words are rushed as if he is trying to get it all out before his brain realizes what he’s doing. “If this is going to work you have got to give me space and you’ve got to take my feelings into consideration as well. Not how you think I should feel, but how I feel.”

“You have to the same for me.” I say and he nods. Two fat tears slide out of his eyes. I choke up and turn away. The quiet is awkward, broken only by the rumbling of the storm. 

“I’ll try to be less distant.” He says, eyes downcast. The guilt radiates off of him in waves.

I don’t say anything for a long time. He is crying and I am still in shock. 

“Sometimes when I say I’m busy, I truly mean it. I’m not picking other people over you. I’m not trying to avoid you, I’m genuinely busy.” He says. “I do care about you a lot.”

“I’ll try to be more understanding of that.” I say. 

“I’ll try to make sure you know that you’re wanted.” 

“I’ll slow us down, we can progress at a more comfortable rate.”

“I’ll try not to take my frustration out on you.”

“I won't either.” I sniffle, the room blurring into splotches of light.

“Phil?” I turn to to look at him and get an armful of Dan. Warm and real and soft. He starts to sob and his voice rumbles against my chest.

“I’m tired of running, Phil. I’m so tired.”

“You don’t have to run anymore, bear.” I whisper into his damp hair. “You don’t have to run anymore.” 

“I’m so sorry, Phil, for everything.” 

“I'm sorry too."

He raises his head and I'm instantly transfixed by his big brown eyes. 

"Can we start over?" 

“I’d like nothing more.” 

We hold each other as the storm rages on and finally let our darkness start creeping into the light.


	18. You Could be My Unintended

I’m done running. I’m done hiding and cringing and letting myself die inside. I’m done pretending and I’m done hurting the people I love.

I’m not stupid or immature enough to think it’ll be smooth sailing from here. There will still be bad days or bad weeks. Sometimes he’ll hate me, sometimes I’ll hate him. Sometimes I’ll hurt myself, sometimes I’ll hurt him, sometimes he’ll hurt me.

None of that matters. What’s important is that we’ll try. What’s important is that we won’t ignore it. We won’t flee from it. We’ll turn around and fight it, two shining knights versus a dragon of darkness. 

It won’t ever be perfect. But what in this world is? 

We wake up the next morning with our hands linked and the sun shining ethereal and bright through the hotel window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has been written over the time span of two years. The first version was three pages long and very strange to anyone who isn't me. I'm toying with the idea of posting it as a bonus chapter, even though it doesn't really add much to the plot.
> 
> This was a very personal fic, and I am surprised and glad that I decided to share it. I thank every single person who took the time to read this. Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who left kudos and wrote comments. I apologize for being rude and never responding, but I was never quite sure what to say. Rest assured I read all of them multiple times and they never ceased to give me a warm glow. 
> 
> I wish you all the best.


	19. Bonus Chapter (There's a Ghost in My Lungs and it Sighs in My Sleep)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy. This adds absolutely nothing to the story besides an look at the *very* rough draft of what would later become a Taste of Honey. I ordinarily wouldn't be posting something like this, but its 1:50 am and I way too recently broke up with the person who inspired the later version of this fic. Anyway, maybe you'll enjoy this. It ends where I originally planned to finish the story but later changed my mind. I sorta like my new ending but also sorta not? I'm undecided. It can end anywhere and anyway the reader would like it to! 
> 
> I now present to you what I wrote a few lines a night before going to sleep on my phone...it took two years for me to get around to making it into an actual storyline.
> 
> Same warnings as before, unsurprisingly

I hear the creak of a cupboard and ignore it. I hear the sound of a wrapper being removed and turn up my headphones. I see fresh bandaids on skin and turn my head away. 

Do I love him because I don't force him to quit anything? 

Or do I hate him because I let him slice himself to ribbons?

Either way, it's none of my business. 

I wander away from the door. I sit on the couch until he walks in. He seems normal. 

"I'm going to bed."

"Bit early."

"Tired." He meanders off to his room. 

I turn on the tv. 

A ping from my cellphone. I don't even have to look at it. The TV shuts off as I put down the remote and walk into the hall. I pass right by my room and enter his. It's dark, so dark I can't see my hand in front of my face. I don't need to see anything, I've memorized how to get to him. I lift the covers and pull the warm body to mine. 

When I wake up he is no longer there. Out for a run, says the note on the counter.

I make a bowl of cereal and browse the web. 

Neither of us mention what happened last night. 

We never do. 

Roaming hands weren't an issue for the first few months. Then he begged me. Begged me for a distraction. For something, anything to fill up the hole that consumes him when he lies awake at night.  
Soft kisses and feather light touches in the darkness. Playful banter and friendly needling in the light. Like we were normal best friends. Like we didn't exist in the dark. 

I live for the moments in the darkness. 

He does too. 

It is during one of those moments when my fingers are stroking down his side that I feel a bandage. 

He makes no excuses. 

I touch the bandaged area again and then kiss it. 

I don't know what I expected. Did I expect him to suddenly swear to not return to the cupboard? Did I expect him to say that he was miraculously feeling better? Did I expect for him to suddenly allow us to toss back the curtains and allow this thing into the light?

Maybe I wished for all and maybe I wished for none. 

Either way, it's none of my business. 

The bandages become more noticeable. Hands, arms, ankles, knees. I hold him tightly at night. 

Then as suddenly as they appear they disappear. 

I don't acknowledge it. 

Feather light touches turn to gripping. Wars rage in the darkness as we try to hurt each other. Make the other bruise and bleed. Winner gets control. 

And both of us desperately want control. 

I am angry. So very angry. Angry that he doesn't seem to love me the way I want him too. Angry that he uses me, that he knows how to goad me into this. 

I am confused too. Confused as to why I don't leave. 

I look at the bruises on my neck from his teeth. The marks on my hips from his hands. The light exposes them as wrong and twisted. This is not normal. But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that the noonday sun screams out the dysfunction of our relationship. It doesn't matter because the marks belong to the darkness. They are invisible in the darkness. In darkness they do not exist. 

Neither do we. 

I don't know if these battles have helped him work off some frustration or if they have just heightened his need. 

Either way it's none of my business. 

The marks he puts on himself belong to the darkness too. 

I can feel the darkness surrounding us. I can feel it pressing down like a quilt over us. I can't sleep, so I listen to the clicks my eyelids make. I lie there listening to his breathing. If I am quiet enough I can hear his heartbeat. 

In the light there is no mention of heartbeats, only memes and blogs and television shows. Places to go, people to see. 

Like our darker halves do not exist. 

We laugh and joke. Crying is for sad stories and movies. Emotions are frittered away. But in the darkness our real faces are shown. 

We claw and tear at each other. Half the time we end up on the floor. Fighting for the sake of fighting. Working off our confusions and misery. Lost in the haze that is each other. Sometimes when he has won I feel something drop on my lips. Salty and damp. It might be sweat or it might be tears. 

Either way, it's none of my business. 

When I gain control my sobs stick in my throat and my emotions are written on his skin in purple.

The darkness strips us of our facades, leaving only the hollowness and gut wrenching loneliness. 

I am loneliest when he is right beside me. 

The endless noise of the city is the soundtrack to our night. The wails of a police car mingles with our breathing. The honking of horns swirls around us as we dream. 

We laugh so hard during the day. My stomach hurts and I gasp for air. During the night, my chest aches and sobs cut off my windpipe. 

We shed our layers in the dark. The false faces we wear during the day are discarded at the door. We pick them up on the way out. 

But in the darkness we are real. Real in a way that defies reality. We are boiled down to our purest form.

I taste copper where legs meet hips. Whether it is from my nails or his blade, I cannot tell. 

Either way, it is none of my business. 

Salty sweat and metallic blood combine on my tongue. Nothing matters but this. This is purity. 

I hear his lungs working. In and out. In and out. 

I want to peel him apart. I want to break his rib cage and replace his heart with my body. Maybe then he will love me. 

Oh god. Please make him love me. 

He is my heaven and he is my hell. He fills me up and he drains me. He gives me color and leaves my life monochrome.

Why can't I leave him? What is it about our relationship that makes me accept the suffering with open arms?

I want to shake him. I want to grab his shoulders and roughly jerk him around until the truth is forced out of him. I want to reach down his throat and pull out the hidden things from the hidden places. 

I could never do that do him. 

Not after tonight. 

We were fighting on the battlefield of off white carpet when I hit the lamp's light switch. Frozen in shock, I could do nothing but gape at him. He looked so fragile, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. A deer in the headlights. Terror rushed through me and I quickly shut off the light. 

Maybe that's an indication that he will never allow this thing into the light. 

One day, I get the courage up to ask him. 

"What are we?"

"Best friends, flat mates, youtube buddies..."

"Be serious."

"I am."

I drop the subject. Light does not allow for darkness to exist. Shadows flee the moment the sun hits them. 

Later that night he rips into me. How dare you! He shrieks silently. 

Next morning I wake up to an empty bed and bruised scratches all over. I'm sore from head to toe. I walk into the living room and he barely even acknowledges my presence.

I remember the deer. I remember the terror. Something inside me, something terrible, seems to smile at the memory. At the fear. An evil smile with long teeth. 

That monster vanishes the minute I hear the familiar creak. In its place is a hollow emptiness. I want to cry but no tears actually form.

He comes back and then shows me a funny video about geese.

Later that night I pin his arms above his head. I hold him there and snarl in his face like a lion asserting its regality. I can't see his face in the darkness, but I can feel the tremors. He shudders against me. I imagine the fear in his eyes and let go of the light. 

I watch his new video a day later. You can still see the marks on his sensitive throat. 

The watchers can too. Hidden within asinine comments are the questions, "is that a hickey?" "Omg, is that what I think it is?!" 

But we are not real. We are not a couple. We are not together. We are not we are not we are not we are not we are not we are we are we are 

I gasp that out later that night. We are we are we are. His body jerks and I feel every muscle twitch. I lean down and bite him. Hard. I taste blood and I am reinvigorated. Then the unthinkable happens.

He fights back. 

This is against the rules. I clearly won. But nevertheless I feel myself being pinned to the floor. I growl and try to reverse our positions. He has height but I am older and stronger. He tries to stand and I push him onto the bed. 

I whisper curses against his flesh as I touch him. He moans and melts and I know I have won. I hold him as we fall asleep, memorizing every hair on his head. 

My heart feels like it will jump out of my chest. 

I look down and it punches me in the stomach, my heart has already left my body and is currently lying in my arms. 

I felt a bandage on his hip and I cried when he wasn't looking at me. I wished that I could carry him away from this world. Away from his life and away from his city. I wanted to take him to a little house with a thatched roof by a moor. It would be empty and foggy. No neighbors, no subscribers, nothing but us.  
Nothing would hurt him.  
But he is the danger. And I can not separate him from himself. 

And I can't separate myself from him. We've become one being. Unavoidable, I suppose. Some religions would say our nights created our union. Those same religions would probably damn us to hell. 

Perhaps we are already there. 

I know I am. 

Maybe...

Maybe nothing. This is stupid.Nothing about this is helpful or relevant to my current situation. I cradle him and put a hand around his neck. I squeeze ever so slightly and his eyelids move around beneath his closed lids. 

I press a quick kiss to his mouth and walk out of the apartment. 

The night swirls around me in the sights and sounds of the city. Cars pass, fog rises, and the stars are dim and far away. 

Where I lived, the stars seemed so immediate. I used to daydream about swimming in them. Now, I dream about drowning in them. 

The water under the bridge is as dark as the night sky. I rest my elbows on the railing and watch the lights reflect on the waves. A breeze ruffles my hair and I sigh. The lights from the buildings drowns out the starlight. There aren't any stars reflected in the river. Maybe that's what happens when you live in a city. The lights of all the crowds of people drown out the fragile fleeting lights of individuals. 

I watch the sun rise and the city come to life. I walk slowly back to the apartment. When I walk in the door I realize that he is asleep on the couch. I look down at him. His chest rises and falls slowly and evenly. I back away carefully. 

I walk into the kitchen and begin to slice a bagel in half. A noise comes from the couch, a breathy whimpering moan. My eyelids flutter shut and when I open them I find myself staring down at him with a knife clutched in a trembling hand.

His eyes snap open and I mentally capture his wide eyed fear. He ask what I'm doing in a voice that just barely quavers. 

I offer him the bagel. He takes it without moving his eyes from the knife. I grin but quickly repress it.

I turn and leave the room. My strides are long and purposeful. I walk into the bathroom and lock the door. The knife tumbles out of my hand and lands on the bath mat. 

I breathe deeply and hold it for moment. Then I sigh and unlock the door. He is watching tv and munching on the bagel. 

I sit down next to him. He sighs and topples over on me. I drape an arm around him. This is nice, I think to myself. After a few programs I realize he's taking an impromptu nap. He looks like a child, sleep smoothing the lines from his face. 

Then I feel a sudden flash of anger, he is no longer a child. He's no longer the long haired nineteen year old boy with a head full of dreams and nightmares. He's an adult, whether he wants to be or not. 

The moment passes quickly. He nuzzles my arm and all my annoyance falls away. I touch his face gently. 

I feel so lost and broken. I don't understand. He doesn't understand. I remember finding a note, it was from a post on tumblr that said something about "if you want to hurt yourself you'll have to hurt me too" and he had drawn question marks. 

My head suddenly flares up. This doesn't feel right. Cuddling is not what we do. We hold each other at arms length during the day. 

That night I give him the best he's ever had. Clawing, biting, powerful. I taste blood when I kiss him and he yells my name.

I taste copper on his hip and he lets out a whimper. The fever dream of this union, this siren song of madness and lust swirls around us until it reaches a crescendo. 

After we finish I am left propped up over him in the dark. I feel the sweat dripping off my body onto his. 

"Fuck you." He whispers. 

I kiss him gently on the temple. "I'll stay with you."

His hands wrap around me tentatively. I hold my breath knowing that movement will make them flee. He presses himself inch by inch along my body until we are almost one being. We have come full circle, loving to hateful to loving once more. But this cannot last. Balance is key and the pendulum will have to swing back. For now I will exult in his touch. I revel in his warmth. I want to shove him onto the floor. 

Instead I pull his face to mine. Kissing his forehead first, then his eyelids. My lips lightly touch his nose and finally his mouth. He jerks slightly when I breath on his neck but settles when I rest my head on his collarbone. 

I fall asleep like that. 

My only memory of peace.


End file.
